


Old Hetalia x Readers

by arbitrarymelodist



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 23:11:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8421082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbitrarymelodist/pseuds/arbitrarymelodist
Summary: These are pretty old tbh. Like 2012 old.Don't worry, I made them gender-neutral (they/them pronouns).





	1. Looking for a Savior

It was a cold, rainy evening in Vienna. The day had seemed long and dreary for a man by the name of Roderich Edelstein. Yet another day of the same routine; yet another day of monotone that the Austrian was beginning to resent. How many years had he been alone in his house, with only a piano to keep him company? How many years had it been since he had declared independence from Germany after World War II?

He appeared to those around him as a stuffy, boring aristocrat who was utterly obsessed with music. But there was much more to his story than that. In reality, he was merely a lonely soul, searching for another person who shared his passion for the musical arts.

Roderich Edelstein was a dreamer, though he never showed it. So when he appeared to be listening intently during meetings, he was really deep in a daydream. There was one certain idea that sprung up more often than it used to, and it made the poor Austrian’s heart ache with the desire that it might someday become reality. 

He wanted someone to come along and set him free of his ball-and-chains, to deliver him from his rut that was about to drive him insane. To rid him of the lonely misery he felt he had been damned to. They’d have to love music as much as he did, of course; he’d spent all of his life surrounded by melodies and harmonies. And of course they wouldn’t mind sharing a strudel or two with him over cups of steaming tea on a cold winter morning. And they would return his feelings of love, and the two would live so happily together.

Roderich looked down at his piano. Who was he kidding, he’d been living this way for too long. If it was meant to happen, they would have appeared already. He sighed and began to play one of his favorite Chopin pieces,  _ Etude #3 in E, “Tristesse” _ .  His well-trained hands gently floated from key to ivory key as he recited the piece. A delinquent curly hair stood up and bobbed along to the divine magnum opus, which he performed without error. 

But after he saw [name] at the world meeting... Their [e/c] eyes glittering, and their [h/c] hair shining... Roderich considered that perhaps, just maybe, there was hope for him after all. 


	2. A Pianist's Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's from 2011, hence why it's a poem from the reader's perspective. How awkward.  
> (To the person I wrote this for: if you're reading this, I still don't like you.)

Well-trained hands gently float

from key to ivory key

as he recites his _Nocturne_

with skill in front of me.

 

A delinquent curly hair

stands up and bobs along

to the lovely magnum opus

in which he plays no note wrong.

 

I stand beside his instrument,

absorbing all his beauty.

He plays with soul and passion;

he loves this melody.

 

The light upon his perfect face

sends shivers up my spine.

Then he looks up and smiles at me,

teeth beautifully in line -

 

He ends the song with a final chord.

A tear slips down my cheek

onto the low key on the board.

I am afraid to speak.

 

I'll never find another man

so graceful and divine.

No one could ever replace him,

this Roderich Edelstein.


	3. By the Light of the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the only story I have ever written with France in it. This was another gift for a friend way back when. FrUK hinted omg

A gentle breeze drifted from the west, causing the silk curtains behind you to rustle in the wind’s wake. The scent of the warm cup of late-night tea you held in your hand wafted delicately under your nose, making you smile. Beneath you, the happy gurgling of the Seine River was acting as a relaxant, the eternal flow of the water was almost like nature’s own lullaby. A famous tower’s silhouette was faintly visible in the pale light of the round, full moon. 

You sighed. Paris was so beautiful during the day, but it was equally beautiful at night as well. The light shining in the windows of the townhouses across the way was reflected on the river’s ink-black surface. Small pools of cream-colored light danced to the rhythm of the small ripples in the water. It was no wonder there were so many artists who depicted Paris - it was truly a magnificent place.

A quiet conversation, the sound of two voices together, drew your attention. Looking down, you noticed a woman and her suitor gliding along the river in a small boat. A small smile spread across your face; not only was France a place where art and music were bountiful, but it was also well-known for being the country of romance. It was then you realized that the two rhymed, maybe someday you could write a poem about it? 

As the couple in the boat drifted out of sight, you took a sip of tea and rested your head upon your elbow. Where on earth was your own beloved? Once again you remembered that he was at a world meeting, and that he’d promised he’d return today. As it was, the moon continued to climb higher and higher into the sky, making you wonder if everything was alright. You wanted to tell yourself that he would be home any minute, but there was always that one little bit of doubt...

Nothing, it was nothing. He was probably running late for the same reason as always: Mr. Kirkland had started fighting with him once more. The two had a habit of arguing with each other every time they met. One question always left you with a smirk on your face: were they arguing, or were they releasing sexual tension with each other? Whatever the reason, you kind of thought they would look cute as a couple, though of course you’d never say that to their faces. You knew you weren’t the only one who thought that, either.

Francis and the aforementioned Brit fought usually for the same reason every time. Francis would start by saying something rather perverted in nature, Arthur would get upset and call him a ‘bloody frog’, or maybe ‘bloody wanker’, or something equally ‘bloody’... You wondered what a world meeting could possibly be like, as you’d never been to one thus far. Based on Francis’ descriptions, they were quite long, hectic, and often boring. 

The sound of something heavy hitting the floor behind you suddenly startled you out of your thoughts. You turned around quickly, fearing there was an intruder of some sort, but smiled when you saw a familiar blonde Frenchman looking back at you.

“ _ Je suis _ ,” Francis began, pulling you into a hug. “I was trying to surprise you, but I dropped my suitcase a bit too heavily.” Rather than giving you the traditional European greeting of kissing someone on the cheek, he pulled you close to him and gave you a sweet, gentle kiss on the lips.

You smiled, a bit flushed after Francis’ greeting. “Welcome back, Francis.”


End file.
